


5 Interplanetary Postcards from the F5YM (+1)

by Artsada



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Prompt Fill, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five planets on or about which Spock was Not Impressed but everyone else mostly had a super awesome fun time, and one that made a great impression indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Interplanetary Postcards from the F5YM (+1)

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt at the STID kink meme: Five ridiculous planets that Jim Kirk and most of the crew had a hilariously fun time exploring... and one planet where everyone was bored out of their minds except for Spock, who absolutely loved it.  
> ...though there is no kink to be seen (unless you count big bananas and orgies involving beings of indeterminate gender).
> 
> Many thanks to K for taking a look over.

**The First**

Near the end of the first year of their F5YM, the intrepid crew of the USS Enterprise encounter a small planetoid, devoid of sentient life but entirely covered in an unfamiliar species of moss the botanists are going batshit for.

Potential high yield nutrient supplement, could save millions from seasonal starvation, blah blah blah… awesome. But _ohmygod_ Kirk so doesn’t care because _moss_. Boring.

But as the crew hadn’t had shore leave in almost three months, Bones is threatening to pull his (or some other unlucky tow-headed larrikin’s) hair out if people don’t stop fucking whining at him, and Spock calculates the probability of a violent conflict at a whopping 0.0000186% (and that only because Jim is like a magnet for this shit, and he’s getting antsy… in his pants), they are all suiting up for a little planet-side expedition.

“Yay,” Jim mutters to himself, pouting attractively as he straps on his phaser, his back-up phaser, and a few super jumbo epihypos. 

Spock is leading the excitable Science crew into the transporter room in a calm and dignified manner, though he looks like nothing more than a faintly contemptuous duck trying to keep his trailing ducklings in line. A tiny bespectacled botanist sighs audibly in his wake.

Sulu appears to his right, brandishing several not-so-secreted knives and possibly a shiruken. “Oh good,” Jim greets him. “So you’re all set to stab the mean moss to death then.”

Sulu directs a pointed look at Kirk’s own personal arsenal and promptly dematerialises. Life as the gregarious, trail-blazing, leader of an intergalactic exploratory peace keeping force is so hard sometimes.

Of course, when he rematerialises on the surface of their Great Mossy Rock, Kirk is reminded of his personal philosophy that nothing is ever as hard as at may at first seem.

“Captain,” Spock acknowledges, with the quiver of one brow. “It appears that this new species of _bryophyte_ has adapted to the ultra violet radiation conditions on this planetoid by growing, possibly by means of a unique kind of incubation, beneath a flexible, dome-like phyto-membrane.”

Kirk nods wisely and keeps his mouth shut. The entire landing party is currently standing in a rough circle of bright, purple-green, springy moss. It seems that this area must have been cleared at materialisation because all around them, as far as the eye can see, the ground is covered in millions of these domes: about the size of half a basketball, slick-shiny like soap-bubbles winking rainbows in the sunlight.

“Report,” Kirk orders. “Likelihood of infection, anaphylactic reaction, or attack if disturbed?”

Spock raises his other eyebrow, but speaks without inflection. “The moss is in no way sentient, sir. Analysis shows the domes contain a simple combination of oxygen, hydrogen, and helium gasses – the latter in far greater ratio. Harmless to the crew.”

“Well, alright then,” Kirk says, and steps boldly out where no man has gone before.

Under the thick rubber sole of his boot, the first bubble breaks – pops – with a satisfying little _pffft_. The moss beneath is soft and resilient, and springs back against his weight. Testing it a little with his toe, Kirk makes another command decision. He jumps – both feet off the ground, slightly slow-motion due to the lower gravity – and lands, _pfft pfft,_ a few feet away. The Squints sigh appreciatively, and Spock is _not impressed._

To his left, and then his right, bubbles are suddenly pfffting everywhere; one after another, devil-may-care.

Sometime later, as the air is filled with the sound of high-pitched giggles, Kirk bounces over to Sulu and says, “Planet Boom!”

A little red in the face, but knives conspicuously absent for once, Sulu performs a neat little summersault and shakes his head -- “Planet _Bubble Wrap_ , fool.”

**The Second**

The Shiivan people are humanoid, friendly, and naturally a fetching metallic orange in colour. They are to the Orions as the Romulans are to the Vulcans – something like cousins, but without the genocide. 

Like Orions, they also practice ritualised orgy and legalised polygamy, but on Shiiva 4 slavery is a crime punishable by really nasty torture and death. The Enterprise and her crew are here on a trading mission, but their real directive is to secure the Shiivans, and their untested but potentially invaluable cloaking technology, as a Federation ally. The Shiivans, never backwards in being forward, seem totally on board with this plan. Especially if they get to keep Chekov.

[Jim has to have him smuggled out during the night, concealed in a giant _papier-mache_ pineapple, but he doesn’t seem to be suffering too much under the attention for now.]

At the celebratory welcome feast there is much music and dancing and food; an extensive schedule of events that is slated to conclude with everyone present getting bare-ass naked and going at it like kreelars (the stripy blue Shiivan equivalent of a bunny and, incidentally, course number three). Again, everybody (crew included) seems pretty on board with this. Logstics are somewhat simplified by the fact that Shiivans as a race are hermaphroditic and universally well-endowed above and below the belt (fringed and sequined and pretty much all they wear). Luckily, all on-mission Fleet personnel are required by regulations to receive monthly contraceptive and antibiotic hypos in preparation for this very eventuality.

“Captain,” says High Praetor Miora warmly, herms third and fourth hands squeezing Kirk’s rear in what is on their planet a gesture less intimate than the hand-shake. “The gods will honour our union tonight. Such a well-made creature as you will no doubt enjoy many seed blessings, and gift them in return.” Miora gives his ass a final congratulatory pat and wanders off to joyfully shimmy herms dangly bits in someone else’s direction.

Kirk remembers a time when the prospect of being covered in alien jizz was something new and exciting to him. Now all he can think about is how many sonic showers it’s going to take to get his hair clean again. Ah well, at least the others seem to be looking forward to a little R&R.

Uhura is sitting enthroned on a great mountain of silky pillows, five or six Shiivans sprawled in a ring around her, engaged in a deep and meaningful cultural exchange of all the dirtiest words in every language they know. An extensive vocabulary is yet another of the Shiivan’s prodigious assets. Scotty is in a corner talking shop – or at least Jim fervently hopes so – with a particularly strapping Shiivan holding a series of metal balls on a string and an intimidatingly large mallet-thing. Speaking of intimidating: the sequence of expressions on Sulu’s face as he hovers over Chekov, currently being petted gently by the seductively warbling King, is truly, _truly_ , frightening.

Someone needs to get that man a sedative, or possibly just a little weed. Chapel seems to have her hands full going around handing out free cherry-flavoured spermicidal lollipops though ( _what the whating what_ ), and Bones flatly refused to leave the ship. This is a shame because McCoy definitely just got a new case of Andorian ale, and Jim feels like he could really use a drink. The Captain is going to be confiscating himself a little contraband as soon as he’s back on deck – and it’ll serve Bones right, whiney welcher that he is.

“May your spouses be many and fecund,” a Shiivan with elaborately braided hair greets politely as herm squeezes by in the crowd.

There is no concept of gender, or indeed gender roles, on Shiiva but the Xenobiologists have formed a theory that the particular arrangement of an adult’s hair publicly signifies certain proclivities in regards to sexual intercourse. As the Shiivans aren't big fans of being clothed or even minimally covered, they basically have to work with what they’ve got. Several of Uhura’s recently acquired fan club have taken to emulating her simple sleek style – not just a mark of admiration, but a blatant invitation. He shudders to think what fashion trends might eventuate if this society were introduced to the concept of the ‘merkin’.

This whole not-so coded message system makes Cos’ila’s special new ‘do even more entertaining. Cos’ila is, of course, something of a Shiivan prince/ss, whose preferred mode of dress is in the order of gold fringed nipple tassels and a bite-size edible candy g-string. Herm is known planet-wide as ‘the conservative one’. It’s probably no surprise then that herm took a particular shine to Kirk’s Most Stoic First Officer – he of the Quietly Burning Man-Pain and Singularly Expressive Eyebrow. Cos’ila has been makin’ with the goo goo eyes all week, but tonight Kirk almost had a seizure when the six foot plus Herm Royal Highness walked in sporting a fugly bowl-cut complete with two pointy copper (ear-like) adornments. Spock looked like he wanted to cry, an expression Jim didn’t actually think anyone else could bring out in him. It was almost enough to make a body feel jealous. Not Kirk’s body though, because Kirk’s body is fully occupied with the prospect of getting laid… a lot.  

Just as he’s contemplating a little pre-emptive stretching (he’s not as young or limber as he used to be, and his ass just isn’t getting the work-out did at the Academy), Kirk feels the oddest little tickle of discomfort at the base of his skull, crawling like a spider down the back of his neck. When he turns he sees Spock backed into a corner, Cos’ila snuggled up close. A passing glance might see nothing amiss there, but Kirk is by now well-versed in Vulcan non-expression and the outrage on Spock’s face is clearer than a blinking neon sign.

Cos’ila has one hand attempting to sneak inside Spock’s uniform shirt, another placed respectfully on his high round ass, and a third most alarmingly teasing at the peak of one green-tinted ear. Spock is evidently Not Impressed. Kirk can’t see where the fourth hand is, but judging by the building eyebrow thunderstorm of doom, it’s not anywhere good.

Bitch is gonna get _pinched_.

Grabbing a bowl of phallic-shaped fruit and a red-shirted ensign dawdling in the vicinity, Kirk manages to magically appear between them before there’s an intergalactic incident that might disrupt the Very Important Orgy. He’s only doing his duty, really.

He sort of half-throws, half-waves both the fruit and the ensign in Cos’ila’s direction, and physically intercedes himself while herm is forced to do a bit of juggling. Incidentally, herm is really fucking good at that – four hands and all – but Kirk is not distracted. “Cosy!” he exclaims with a winning smile, “Haaaave you met--” kicking Red Shirt not-so-subtly in the leg (“Greg!”) “—Greg?” Spock has wisely backed a half-step behind and to the left of him, and Kirk decides to get while the getting is good. “Great guy,” he says. “Likes corn dogs, Elvis, and long walks on the observation deck. Absolutely lousy with seed and just dying to get to know you better.” Greg looks like he’s about to explode from some combination of fear, humiliation, and a possible high blood pressure problem (or a healthy libido), but Cos’ila is already turning herms wide grey-blue on him and sizing up the boy’s rather pathetically lop-sided afro. It looks like the beginning of a beautiful tragedy.

Spock and Kirk exit stage left.

Some time later, as the earth-shaking cries of hundreds of voices raised in ecstasy echo through the marble-like halls of the palace, Kirk takes great delight in capturing Spock’s king for the fifth consecutive time. The Vulcan is looking suspiciously green around the ears, but Kirk feels absolutely no guilt in taking advantage.

 

**The Third**

It’s another First Contact, approximately 3.42 years into the mission, and about 3.16 years after they all went more than a little bit insane. That’s the only explanation really, and though Kirk loves all 1,658 of his crew, it is way passed time to be breaking out the straight jackets. Of course, whoever has the punishment duty that must be reading his mission reports probably has a very nice padded cell lined up for him and just waiting for their much fabled return to Earth, but they have no authority here.

Jim is the only one who seems to find it deeply suspicious that these beings resemble nothing so much as big bananas with limbs and beady black eyes, but their diet consists entirely of fruit. In fairness, there’s pretty much nothing on Lambda Omicron IX other than fruit (and other suspiciously fruit-like things), but it’s still _weird_. Rather than paying due attention to Jim’s finely-honed weird-shit-o-meter, however, someone whipped up a batch of strawberry daiquiris and everyone seems to be having a pretty good time. Scotty and Sulu are grinning at each other shamelessly, mouths spread in sticky, orange-peely glee, and Chekov has been convinced by someone evil (Uhura… totally Uhura) that doing the hula on a table in front of the entire crew is a culturally significant coming-of-age ritual (necessarily accompanied by coconut-bra and lei). 

Jim… Jim is feeling itchy. Itchy for the truth! Something is definitely citrusy in the state of ~~Denmark~~ Lalluna C’ooche and, _by gum,_ Kirk is going to get to the bottom of it. He just can’t trust a species that doesn’t immediately attempt to fuck, kill, and/or eat him at first sight.

“Lookin’ a little flushed there, Jimmy,” Bones interjects, off-hand. Currently clutching at a large, spotty not-watermelon, he looks (for once) like he doesn’t wish anyone in the vicinity any physical or emotional harm. Evidence of likely apocalypse or surprise attack is clearly mounting. “I’ve requisitioned enough of this lovely lady for the entire crew to give Space Scurvy the good ol’ fashioned heave-ho. You make sure you get a second helpin’, hear? You’re diseased enough as it is.”

Jim nods solemnly, convinced that it is now up to him alone to foil the Bananas’ dastardly scheme. Fructose-based mind control? Klingon-Funded Revenge Plot? There’s a tingling on his tongue and Jim knows he’s on to something – tastes like truthiness.

Time to investigate.

The walls are decorated with strawberry vines, but the fruits themselves are green where the leaves are red. They hang thickly all around, intertwined here and there with twinkling lights, and the smell of summer settles in the air. To Jim, it just smells _fishy_. Casually, so as not to arouse suspicion, he sidles over to the nearest wall and performs a stealthy scratch and sniff. Results inconclusive, he decides to venture a delicate lick.

Right.

“Spock, Spock!” he hisses, as quietly and calmly as he can whilst _freaking the fuck out_. “The strawberries taste like _strawberries_ and the _snozberries_ taste like _snozberries.”_

“Captain, are you well?” Spock’s eyebrow is telegraphing mild confusion, concern, and a rising tilt of alarm. It’s some damn expressive facial hair. “Your complexion is nearing purple in colour and I had not been aware that such a colour was within the normal human spectrum.” A pause, and Spock’s singular blink is speaking. “Is there some issue of which I should be made aware?”

Jim feels a completely manly and justified hysteria setting in. He may be hyperventilating. “I’m turning violet? _Violet?!”_ There are spots on his arms, and spots in front of his eyes, and Spock has to get it, he just has to get it--

Jim clutches at lean Vulcan shoulders and wails -- “I don’t wanna be a blueeeeeberrrrrry!” Then promptly passes out.

Some indeterminable time later, he wakes up in sick bay to a clear view of said Vulcan shoulders arranged stiffly by his bed.

“So I guess I’m not a fruit then.” It comes out a little scratchy, but that’s what a near swelled-shut airway’ll give you -- sex voice.

Spock coughs subtly, but quickly recovers himself. “It would appear not, Captain. You are, however, most definitely allergic to at least 97.3% of all life on Lambda Omicron IX.”

 “And the others?” Kirk feels bound to ask.

“Also still humanoid in appearance and biochemical composition.” When even Vulcans are making funnies, you know the source material is gold.

“You collapsed 3.08 hours ago,” Spock continues, “at which point I notified Doctor McCoy, who subsequently administered what he assured me was a “Kirk-grade” epihypo to your posterior--”

“My ass, Spock, that perverted bastard stabbed me in the ass _again_!”

“-- and we were promptly beamed back aboard the _Enterprise_.” Spock is patently neither moved nor impressed by his impassioned recriminations. “All personnel performed adequately in execution of emergency protocol 947.”

Jim’s most pathetic puppy-dog eyes may not be able to break Spock’s adherence to formal reporting protocols, but they do eventually win him some much-appreciated ice-chips, and a slight inward lean. Spock even fetches the ice himself; it seems they’re practically alone up here as all approved crew members are still on planet enjoying the finest fruity cocktails this side of the milky way. “Sorry you had to miss the party,” Jim says, muffled slightly by the careful crunch of ice.

“It is unfortunate that I was not able to sample more of the feast, as it is unusual to encounter such a varied offering of vegetarian fare.” Spock smoothes one long-fingered hand against the bed clothes, straightening out a little wrinkle there. “But as Dr McCoy and the designated team from Botany will be returning with samples for propagation--” the slightest pause, and there’s that tiny blink again-- “Regret is illogical.”

When Sulu comes to visit him some hours later (still happily lei’d), he will gleefully inform Jim that his stoic XO nerve-pinched three banana-things and Ensign Komack before McCoy could get through to administer the hypo.

“Right,” Jim says, sucking on his ice-cube a little longer than necessary. “Chess?”   

Unofficially, Lambda Omicron IX is known as ‘That Planet Kirk Can’t Go To Without Full Hazmat (#2)’. Jim feels a little silly, but unreservedly blames Bones. Still, it’s not the worst party he’s ever been to; quasi-cannibalism aside, the Big Bananas are pretty sweet, and their blue-and-white striped formal comfortwear starts a Federation-wide fashion trend.    

**The Fourth**

Somewhere between Planet ‘That Gesture Doesn’t Mean What You Think It Does’ and Planet ‘Steel Is Not a Color-Scheme (No Matter How Sharp It Is)’, hell must actually have frozen over because they somehow managed to move from the proverbial frying pan not into the fiery pits but to a genuine Winter Wonderland. It probably says something sad about his poor stunted soul, but Kirk has grown to wildly prefer the unpopulated planets above all others. He likes his sexually adventurous, morally ambiguous FCPs (First Contact Peoples) as much as the next guy, but sometimes what he really needs is just to drink some delicious hot cocoa – the kind with the tiny pink and white marshmallows – and watch Chekov school everyone on how to build a proper snow man.

Not-Hoth is really a pretty barren planetoid, but beautiful nonetheless. Fresh snow covers the ground thickly and glistens from the boughs of bushy red and yellow trees scattered around. It’s cold enough to break out the mittens and scarves generously provided by the Enterprise Local Chapter 403 Stich n Bitch Society but the sun is shining high in the sky and a combined Engineering-Security task force has already managed to set up some pretty impressive pop-up cabins and a few good roaring fires. They’re ostensibly here to sample and study some of the sturdy alpine plant life, but Spock has graciously agreed to turn a blind eye to a spot of light tobogganing as long as everyone promises to keep off the grass. 

“The snow man was inwented in Russia, you know,” Chekov is earnestly informing his indulgent audience. Sulu nods supportively and wiggles the carrot nose further in. Uhura and Navigation Officer Darwin each located a round, flat stone for its eyes… but Lord knows where they found the pipe.

“What are you plannin’ to do when the snow ball fight finally breaks out?” McCoy asks, sitting down next to him by the fire. “Dissention in the ranks, and all.”

Jim shifts over a little on the convenient log and keeps an eye on the marshmallow he’s settled over the fire. “Ah, let the kiddies tire themselves out,” he says warmly. “They’ll sleep well tonight.”

Bones snorts into his cocoa. “That’s some good down-home wisdom there, mama bear.” Then Jim gets distracted trying to find some unbundled skin to pinch in retaliation and accidentally tips his carefully-selected marshmallow stick into the fire.

While he’s still pouting and trying to convince Bones it’s within the parameters of his authority as captain to conscript a Special Stick Fetcher in times of great need, Scotty turns up with a bottle of his best moonshine cradled carefully under his parka.

Bones holds out his mug with somewhat unflattering speed. “Breaking out the good stuff are we, Chief?”

“Ach aye, it’ll put hair on your chest to be sure, laddie.” Scotty fairly beams with pride as he sloshes in a generous helping.

“Good for your bones…” Jim smirks, and then laughs outright at the glare McCoy shoots him out the corner of his eye. For a man positively stuffed full of ole-timey metaphor and well-seasoned platitudes, the man just cannot stand a bad dad joke. Jim takes his own hooch helping with what he assures himself is most dignified aplomb. There may or may not be a mini-marshmallow in his hair.

Jim takes a careful sip of the steaming concoction and hums with contentment. “Chocolate makes _everything_ better.”

And as for the ‘shine, well, they’re not on duty or in the midst of any particular disaster…

When will he learn to stop metaphorically mooning fate and just appreciate a bit of goof honest down-time? James T. Kirk: that’s Tiberius, not _trouble_.

Right. “I’m leaving the kids in your capable hands, Bones,” he says decisively, hopping off the log.

“Damn it, Jim,” Bones grouses, “I’m a doctor, not a baby wrangler!”

Jim doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a reply - though he does try desperately to shake off the mental image of Bones chasing nappy-clad crew members around med bay - and goes instead to fetch another hot chocolate for his elusive tea-totalling XO.

He eventually spots said tall, green and handsome First Officer supervising a few hapless ensigns tapping for sap samples at the edge of a little wooded area. Someone (probably Chapel) has clearly spared a thought for Vulcan climate tolerance because Spock is thoroughly cosseted in the standard issue grey puffy parka, a long knitted scarf in red-and-white stripe, and a matching beanie (complete with jaunty pom pom) that neatly covers his ears. There may be mittens to complete the ensemble, but Kirk can’t immediately tell. He notes that whilst Spock’s cheeks are perhaps a little pale from the cold, there are otherwise no outward signs of discomfort.

“How goes it?” Jim asks, gently bumping padded shoulders and trying not to spill his precious load at the same time.

Spock tilts his head in acknowledgement but keeps his gaze on the fumbling ensigns. “The task progresses according to schedule.”

“Well, I’ve brought you something to make the time pass a little faster,” Jim says conspiratorially, and presses one of the mugs towards him. He feels a warmth inside that has less to do with boozy cocoa than what some might call pure, uncomplicated happiness.

Spock receives this gesture with some reluctance ( _mittens_!) and delicately sniffs at the rising steam. “I have never sampled a beverage with associated properties of temporal distortion,” he rumbles, but Jim catches the little flick of his lashes that means it’s a joke.

“Don’t worry,” Jim laughs, “I didn’t let Scotty anywhere near yours.” Taking a sip of his own pleasantly spicy cocoa (with just a hint of rocket fuel in the after-taste), Jim doesn’t feel the need to reflect on the number of nights in his past that occurred in those strange drunken slip-slides of time. “I suppose it’ll make the time pass more pleasantly, at least,” he says with a smile instead.

Spock raises the mug to take a sip, and their padded elbows bump together. “Indeed,” he says.

They stand there like that for a while, sipping at their cocoa and ignoring the sounds of the Great Snowball Massacre that are carried to them on the breeze.

By the time both their mugs are running dry, Spock’s lips and cheeks are flushed a healthier green and he almost seems to exude a sort of very dignified and reserved contentment. The slightly unfocused look in his eyes is a little unusual though.

“You doing okay there, buddy?” He had thought Spock might just be feeling the effects of the cold, but now he’s looking Jim notices that all is definitely not well. His normally rigidly posture-perfect friend is listing ever so slightly to the left, and Kirk kind of feels the need to call him on it.

“Fashinating,” Spock responds solemnly, slurring only slightly as he peers into his mug. And then he hiccups.

Jim takes a moment to mentally hit himself upside the head for thinking how cute that is, and then straight-out screams ---“ _BONES!_ ”

He’s feeling a little of that by-now familiar hysteria setting in again. McCoy takes his sweet time sauntering over, chewing casually on the carrot sticking half out of his mouth. It may be some poor man’s nose. _Sweet Christ_ , Jim thinks, _who died and made_ me _warden of the mad house_? But then he thinks of Pike, and quickly thinks of other things.

“ _Bones_ ,” he says with some desperation, “Spock’s having an allergic reaction or something. It is very, very wrong – please make it stop.”

The doctor chews thoughtfully, gives Spock a thorough up-and-down look, and _hmmms_. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”

Kirk feels himself sobering with alarming speed-- _“Oh God_ , what is it?!” Spock’s head is now resting ( _nuzzling?)_ heavily on Jim’s shoulder, so he’s clearly lost the will to live, or at least the strength to remain upright. 

“I’m sorry,” Bones begins ominously, and then, to Jim’s everlasting horror, makes a noise that can only be described as a slightly inebriated _snorfle_. “He’s _drunk_ , Jim!”

Right on cue, Spock hiccups again (right against Jim’s ear – distracting) and licks his lips in a thoroughly audible and disconcerting manner.

“But--” _Oh God_ , Jim thinks, _I’ve roofied an officer under my command_ , and then decides not to think about that too, “--What do I do?”

The look on McCoy’s face is a thoroughly un-doctorly mixture of glee and long-suffering disgust. “I guess you’re the one on babysitting duty now, son!”

So it turns out that whilst Vulcan physiology metabolises ethanol with extreme efficiency, chocolate is something of an illicit substance. As a result, the next day, Spock will suffer through the first and worst hangover of his life, and everyone else will really feel very little pity. Bones, also nursing something of a sore head, grudgingly forces a hypo of saline and electrolyte solution on him and Jim uses his intimate and slightly carnal knowledge of the ship’s inner workings to ensure lighting in all common areas remains at three quarter power for the day. In the end, it becomes just another one of those embarrassing things they know about each other but try not to bring up unless it’s going to be really, really, hilarious. Jim is particularly looking forward to next Valentine’s day though.

**The Fifth**

By the time they’ve been out there in the Wide Sparkly Yonder for something approaching the planned for five years, they’ve all fucked, killed and married many times over for the love of each other and their own skins. After That Time with the Giant Green Blob Thing, and That Time with the Children that they just don’t talk about, they’re all frankly pretty relieved to come across what essentially equates to Petting Zoo World.

Bones keeps muttering about animal-to-human transferable super viruses and the evils of exotic pet dander, but his gloom and doom demeanour is somewhat undermined by the fluffy yellow chick cupped gently between his hands. Jim himself, in that hardened little corner of his soul, can’t shake the concern that this might be more of an All-You-Can-Eat Intergalactic Endangered Species Buffet, but his crew are happy and no one’s breaking out the steak knives on their watch.

Everything is a little golden in the warm, hazy light of the setting sun – silver sickles of the planet’s two moons already rising in the purpling sky. There are plenty of trees here, soft waving grasses and daisy-studded meadows, a faint summer breeze. It reminds him in a lot of home, or what home could be, despite the fact that they’re about as far away from that as possible (without knowing… precisely where they actually are). But for this indefinite afternoon his crew are content, and Jim is happy to see it. With the effect it seems to be having here, who knows -- Fleet Mandated Baby Animal Cuddle Times may be the next big thing in interplanetary diplomacy.

From his carefully selected vantage point, Kirk keeps an eye on all of his people.

Chekov and Sulu are rolling about on the grass with what looks like a scruffy brown puppy, except is has the little white nubs of juvenile antlers and two tails with waving cotton-ball ends. They may be engaging in some sort of inter-species tickle war, and Kirk narrows his gaze for a moment, making sure that no hands are venturing past carefully delineated public indecency borders.

Uhura is looking less like her usual BAMF self, and more like a woman who may actually be suffocating because she is covered – absolutely covered – in purring, squirming, furry tribbles. Nevertheless, her pony tail (which is about all that he can make out) seems to be telegraphing unadulterated joy, so Kirk simply makes a cheerful mental note that she will require an unusually thorough frisking before being allowed back on his boat.

There’s a red-shirted ensign whose name he can’t quite recall making adoring eyes at a bright-pink pony-thing, carefully brushing at its glittering silver mane. Two Andorians in slightly-clashing Science blue (a hand-fasted pair, if Jim remembers correctly) are petting at what looks mostly like a large white rabbit but is probably an Andorian Hybor from the way they’re cooing at it, antennae aquiver.

Scotty and Keenser may be pushing things a little too far but Kirk can’t really bring himself to care as long as they keep their underwear on and stay in the shallow end of the rock-pool. Their antics might best be described as cavorting, or possibly frolicking (if that weren’t strictly against Regulations), and around them play all manner of feathered and scaled things. If Jim were a betting man, he’d lay odds that the brown furry thing on Keenser’s head is actually an enormously fat platypus – but those have supposedly been extinct for a hundred years or more.

Full circle, Jim looks to Spock where he stands in the slight shade of the barn-like structure to their right. His spine has unstiffened almost imperceptibly in the course of their adventures, and he’s as close to relaxed now as perhaps Kirk has ever seen him. There’s a black and grey tabby twining lithely around his ankles, leaving fur on Spock’s pristine black uniform pants, but he remains still, hands clasped behind his back and visibly unaffected except for the slight lowing of thickly-lashed lids. As Kirk is making another mental note – to make sure Ding Dong, the ship’s cat, is staying healthy and well-fed – the tabby startles and scampers off towards some bushes.

Loping ponderously around the side of the barn is a large four-legged beast with the furry round-eared look of a bear, except when it yawns to reveal huge sabre-like fangs. Everything in Spock seizes, his whole being fused in some terrible, painful way, and Kirk sees – Kirk knows – because that is possibly the last surviving sehlat. Kirk feels a tightness in his chest and a real, sharp, fear that has nothing to do with predator-prey response. Eyes to the ground, he closes the distance between them with quick, sure steps -- then he’s standing close, close enough to see the white-hard strain of those knuckles where Spock’s hands are fisted stiffly at his sides.

“I--”, Spock begins, head turning unerringly, mechanically, towards him.

Jim doesn’t say anything, just – in one slow, deliberate, movement – reaches out to circle the fingers of his right hand around Spock’s wrist, thumb pressing against the clench of that fist until it shudders open, and he can slide their palms together, fingers cupped close.        

**The Other**

Two thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven days after they last left her, the familiar curves of the Earth are once again visible from the starboard observation decks of the _Enterprise_.

Jim’s been standing at the railing for a while, hands folded behind his back instead of pressed hungrily to the curved perspex wall like they kind of want to be, when Spock (mysterious and omniscient as always) appears by his side. “17.3 minutes until arrival at Space Dock, Captain.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he says without turning from the view.

Silence beats like a heart, like the life and body of the ship around them. All through her veins and across her bones their crew are living, working, hurrying to complete last minute tasks and say last minute goodbyes before they touch down after more than six years floating together in this wondrous tin can. 

“Some say home is where the heart is,” Jim muses, hushed. “I always favoured it’s ‘wherever you hang your hat’.” _Or whoever’s bed your boots happen to be under_ , he thinks. “So why then do I look at that and feel this awful longing in my chest? All I ever wanted was to touch the stars…”

They’re alone on the deck, alone in that moment together, and Jim knows they’re both thinking of another planet once called home, where there is now only more void, more space.

“My mother,” Spock says eventually, and Jim feels it pricking across his skin. “My mother was overly fond of Terran axioms, but I think she would have said home, like family, is the one you choose. For me, I would say only _ki'kwi'fun-tor_.”

Jim tilts his head, listening to the hint of a smile in that. “Meaning?”

“…It’s good to be back.”

So they stand there beside each other in silence for the next few immeasurable moments and watch the blue-green globe growing closer. They don’t touch; there’s no need for it now.

They’re home.

 


End file.
